


Sink Into The Open Sea

by spockandawe



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One)
Genre: Grief/Mourning, Lost Light 25 Spoilers, M/M, Major Illness, Medical, Terminal Illnesses
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-08
Updated: 2018-11-08
Packaged: 2019-08-20 10:59:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,568
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16554506
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spockandawe/pseuds/spockandawe
Summary: Ratchet sighs heavily and says, “Bugger.”





	Sink Into The Open Sea

**Author's Note:**

> Major spoilers for Lost Light 25
> 
>  
> 
> [Tumblr](http://spockandawe.tumblr.com/post/179877198381/sink-into-the-open-sea-spockandawe-the)

Ratchet sighs heavily and says, “Bugger.”

You don’t react much more than he does, but you think he’s taking bad news well, while you’re stuck here frozen hoping that maybe you just misheard what First Aid just told you.

You didn’t mishear anything. You heard it exactly right. And now you can hear it right over and over again, and maybe it’s not exactly reasonable of you, but you would _really_ appreciate it if this conversation could happen without using variations on ‘death’ and ‘dying’ quite so much.

But no, Ratchet is completely unaffected, just having a nice calm conversation about— about how he’ll be dead soon and there’s nothing anyone can do. First Aid looks unhappier than Ratchet does. Ratchet’s sitting on a stool with his hands resting in his lap, just talking like this is any other conversation, while First Aid stands in front of him, shifting his weight from foot to foot and looking away from Ratchet every few moments and down at the datapad he’s holding.

You’re not really hearing the words either of them is saying anymore, but you don’t know what to _do._ You’re just standing here like a statue, being completely useless. You force yourself into motion and push the other stool closer to Ratchet’s. At least— At least you need to be close right now. You need to be _with him_ right now. You still haven’t really... reacted, but you’re moving too stiff and jerky, and all you can do is hope neither of the others notice.

When you move to sit down on the stool, you make optic contact with First Aid for a moment, and no, never mind, you can’t do this. You have to do this. You can’t. Maybe— Maybe if you don't look at him.

You sit on your stool facing away from the other two and try to center yourself. It’s not really working. But at least, here, you can snake your arm under Ratchet’s, wrap it around his waist, and hold him. He doesn’t pause in his conversation with First Aid, and for a moment you almost wonder if he even knows you’re here. But he shifts just enough to reach up and pat your hand reassuringly. And then he leaves his hand there, his arm pressing yours against his plating.

You try to focus on that feeling as the conversation wraps up. You still aren’t hearing much of it. You’re still hung up on wait, no, Ratchet can’t _really_ be dying, there must be some mistake. But it must be ending, because you hear First Aid walking away and then the door shutting behind him.

Ratchet sighs then, and leans a little further into you. He says, “Well. We had a good run.”

“It’s not fair,” bursts out of you, even though you already know how stupid that is and how little it matters.

Ratchet doesn’t say anything to that, just stays where he is, shoulder to shoulder with you. His fingers start tracing over the engravings on your arm.

There’s a long moment of silence, then you add, “This can’t be right. It can’t. You said the average age for burnout is over nine million, you can’t—” You cut yourself off there. This is already… enough. Without you making it worse.

 _“Average_ age, Drift,” Ratchet says. “There still aren’t many cases documented. Some of them made it over twelve million years. But some didn’t even make it to seven.”

He’s within that range. You already know that. You caught that much before you really understood what it was you were hearing. But you’re also older than he is, and here _you_ are, no problems, and Ratchet is—

“There aren’t enough data points to know what factors drive that age for individuals,” he says, with an apologetic note in his voice. Of course he knows what you’re thinking. _He’s_ the one dying, and _you’re_ the one being selfish and making it all about you.

You don’t know if you can make your vocalizer work right now, so you settle for turning your head into his shoulder, burying your face against his plating. You try to focus on the feeling of his fingers still tracing over the lines of your engravings, anything to center yourself.

Ratchet says, “You’ll be fine without me.”

You _won’t,_ that’s the thing. You know what he means, you’ll be able to keep going, you’ll be able to handle— handle losing him, but you _won’t_ be fine, you don’t know how you’re supposed to be _fine_ ever again. You swallow hard around a lump in your throat. You’re not saying a word of that out loud, but you’re pretty sure Ratchet can follow your train of thought anyways, and you don’t know how to stop thinking about it.

He unwraps your arm from around his waist, and you’d fight him, except you’re too numb to move. He takes your arm from around him, and pushes you up and away, but before you can feel too betrayed, he stands, tugging you to your feet, and pulls you into an embrace.

You almost shatter. A helpless noise slips out of you before you can stop it, but you manage to cut off the rest. You press your face into Ratchet’s neck and wrap your arms around him, clinging as hard as you can. You can feel his hand against your back, moving steady and reassuring over your plating.

After a few moments, you manage, “I’m sorry.”

“No,” he says. “No. Don’t be sorry. But we should get home. You don’t want to do this here.”

All you can do is shake your head. You agree with him. You don’t want to be here right now. You want to be at home, in private, locked away from the rest of the world. But you’d have to go out in public to get there and you— can’t. Not right now. You can’t.

Ratchet doesn’t push it, just stays where he is, holding you. He says, “We have a few weeks. Maybe a month. There were times we didn’t think we had that much. Remember? We’ll make it count.”

That isn’t the same. It isn’t. That was you and him, both of you, _together._ And you made it through. It’s not Ratchet—just Ratchet—guaranteed to die, _resigned_ to dying, and you left all alone afterwards, trying to remember how to live without him. It’s not the same at all.

Still— It helps. It’s time together. You _have_ time together. It’s not enough, it could never be enough, but it’s _something._ You still feel so brittle you’re afraid to even move, but you think you might be able to hold yourself together long enough to get home.

Then Ratchet says, “I should write a paper.”

 _“Ratchet,”_ you beg, and there’s so much more trying to explode out of you, but your vocalizer is glitching too badly for you to go on.

You feel him wince, which only makes you feel worse, but you also feel his arms resettling around you, holding you even closer. Your hands are too tight on his plating, but you can’t make yourself let go.

“I can write a paper with you there, you know I can,” he says.

It doesn’t really help, but you still don’t think you can talk.

He sighs heavily. “My sensors missed everything. I keep an eye on myself, and I know what I’m looking at. Internal scans showed up clean right up until I came to First Aid for a second opinion on the exhaustion.”

You really, really don’t want to talk about this. You manage, “Ratchet, please.”

“It’s new information,” he says. “We know so little about age-related burnout, and none of the other patients on record had medical training. I have my own files, but I’ve also got all those scans and plenty of other monitoring data in my archives. The only medical scans currently on record are from late-stage patients.”

You can’t speak.

Ratchet hesitates. “It’s information that could help save lives.” His voice is so gentle it hurts. “I’m fine. But if I can prevent one person from going through what you’re going through, it will be worthwhile.”

That hurts in an entirely different way. And it’s a rush of guilt too, remembering that this isn’t about you, you’re not the one who’s sick, you’re not the one who’s _dying._ You run a long vent cycle, reset your vocalizer, drag yourself back under control. Ratchet’s hand is still moving over your back, slow and steady.

“It’ll be an easy end,” he says. “No pain. No suffering.”

That almost undoes all your work, and you nearly crack again. You only just manage to keep yourself still and silent, and you’re thrown all over again into thoughts of how you’re supposed to live without him, how you’re supposed to leave him behind, how you’re supposed to watch him _die._ It’s a few long moments before you trust yourself to speak again.

You push away from Ratchet and stand up on your own. Before anything else, you take his face in both hands and kiss him, slow and soft. When you step back and reach out to take his hands in yours, you can see the worry in his expression as he watches you.

You manage to smile. It’s wobbly and unsteady, but it’s there. You smile at Ratchet and say, “Let’s go home.”

**Author's Note:**

> [Tumblr](http://spockandawe.tumblr.com/post/179877198381/sink-into-the-open-sea-spockandawe-the)


End file.
